Regular readers of my blog will know that one of my favourite poets is Leconte de Lisle, whose poems are wonderfully visual in that each word contributes to a vivid mental image. Many of his poems are about wild animals, and today I am sharing with you one on the albatross, translated from the French by my friend John Harding.

I love the choice of words in this poem: immensity, bellows, romping, foaming, flings, savaging, shivering, feathery, hammering, majesty. De Lisle never settles for bland language that springs straight to mind; he takes care to choose each word for maximum sense and impact – and this approach, I think, is most admirable, and it has shaped my own writing style.

The Albatross

In the broad immensity from Capricorn to the Pole

The wind bellows, howls, hisses, croaks and mews,

And goes romping across theAtlanticall white

In foaming rage.  It flings itself forward, savaging

The deathly-pale waters, harrying and scattering them in fine spray;

It bites, tears, uproots and hacks the massive clouds

Into shivering pieces where a sharp lightning-flash lets blood;

It seizes, wraps round and flings head-over-heels in the air

A whirling confusion of shrill screams and feathery spouts

Which it shakes and drags to the foaming crests,

And hammering the sperm-whales’ mighty brows,

Mingles with its wailings their colossal sobs.

Alone, the King of the endless void and of the shoreless seas

Flies against the wild blasts’ attack.

By a mighty and sure stroke, with neither haste nor halt,

His eye having pierced beyond the ashen mist,

With his iron wings stiffly outstretched

He cleaves the whirlwind spread far in raucous force,

And, quiet amidst the scene of fright,

Comes, passes by, and disappears in majesty.

L’albatros

Dans l’immense largeur du Capricorne au Pôle
Le vent beugle, rugit, siffle, râle et miaule,
Et bondit à travers l’Atlantique tout blanc
De bave furieuse. Il se rue, éraflant
L’eau blême qu’il pourchasse et dissipe en buées;
Il mord, déchire, arrache et tranche les nuées
Par tronçons convulsifs où saigne un brusque éclair;
Il saisit, enveloppe et culbute dans l’air
Un tournoiement confus d’aigres cris et de plumes
Qu’il secoue et qu’il traîne aux crêtes des écumes,
Et, martelant le front massif des cachalots,
Mêle à ses hurlements leurs monstrueux sanglots.
Seul, le Roi de l’espace et des mers sans rivages
Vole contre l’assaut des rafales sauvages.
D’un trait puissant et sûr, sans hâte ni retard,
L’oeil dardé par delà le livide brouillard,
De ses ailes de fer rigidement tendues
Il fend le tourbillon des rauques étendues,
Et, tranquille au milieu de l’épouvantement,
Vient, passe, et disparaît majestueusement.